Well, that life was no more. Ania had had to bid Brent Connols a bitter goodbye. As Margaret attempted to calm her feelings of impending doom, Ania recalled the first time she had ever seen the young duke to be. It was not that she was a wallflower by any mean; she supposed the incessant people-watching was a product of her creativity, and so she found herself on the balcony of the drawing room alone during her coming-out ball. It had proved to be a most advantageous spot, given that it overlooked the terrace below, where a particularly noisy tryst had been arranged between Cornelia Vanderwilt and Bryce Amderwood; their meeting had begun with the lady’s helpless giggles and ended behind the rosemary bush that alternatively shook and resounded with the lanky gentleman’s groans. They were so loud Ania thought it was a wonder nobody else had caught on to what was going on, but then supposed that the water burbling in the nearby fountain provided an effective noise mask. She was leaning out over the balcony railing to gain a better peek at the lady’s bare leg that was beginning to inch out from behind the bush when a rather large male hand clasped itself around her waist.
“You’ll do yourself a mischief, leaning out that far,” a friendly voice calmly said behind her, and Ania stifled the scream of surprise that had been threatening to escape her lips. She turned around and found herself looking into a pair of nice blue eyes that twinkled with laughter. Brent Connols’s ears were pricked by the noisy little rosemary bush, and he looked out beyond Ania’s head—he must have stood at least two heads taller than her—and hinged on the thumping piece of flora. A smile creased his face, and Ania felt herself sag in relief; Brent Connols was not going to chastise her for spying on the young couple’s tryst.
“I’ve always wondered,” he said, quite soberly, “how people avoid getting thorns stuck in their hair once they are finished with such clandestine meetings.”
Ania found herself chuckling aloud at the thought. “Perhaps they do as the primates do,” she found herself saying aloud. “You know, picking through each other’s hair before they rejoin more polite society.”
At Brent’s laugh, Ania found herself relaxing easily into his company. They stayed together for the rest of the evening, even though Ania knew that it was quite inappropriate. Still, there was something about their exchange that made her know almost immediately that they were going to get along splendidly. When he called on her and Margaret the next day for a carriage ride, she found herself thinking how lucky she was that she had found herself somebody with who she could be friends. It was the best marriage she could ever hope for, she often thought, since who but a friend—and her sister—could ever understand her extracurricular activities, ones that did not go a long way in ensuring that she was the perfect future duchess? Expertly trained and long since an expert in hiding her imperfections and sparks of imagination behind a smooth façade, Ania hoped that if Brent was the kind of man who could laugh with her at another couple’s foibles, perhaps he was the kind of duke who would allow her some small measure of freedom to carry on as she wished.
Alas, it seemed not to be. Ania was not pleased.
“Did you truly think you two had a connection during that time, Ania?” Margaret asked her, wondering at it all.
“Yes,” Ania answered, bending her head, the waves of her light brown hair falling about her face. Darn curls, never could stay up as they were ordered to. “And now, I have to marry his brother, that—that rake!”
Nicholas Connols listened to the purr of the girl’s voice in his ear as she expertly licked his ear and shifted the weight of her pert little bottom in his lap.
“What do you want me to do to you, darling?” she whispered, and he felt himself riding to the occasion.
“Keep your mouth busy,” he countered, and the girl scrambled to her knees in front of him, sliding a certain heavy part of his anatomy in between her lips. Her work down there was skilled, to be sure, but Nicholas found himself unable to lose himself in the moment completely. He was not sure what he was looking for, but he knew for certain he would not find it in this house of ill repute, despite the fact that the house was stocked with women to cater to every physical need. The problem was, thought Nicholas as he felt himself swell inside of the blonde’s mouth as she rubbed her tongue along the length of his shaft, was that it was all so casual. There was nobody except for Brent that he could share his thoughts with, and certainly not here. What he wanted, he was slowly realizing, was something more than the short-term payoff of the random tumblings inside of these houses. Certainly, the women were grateful, for he prided himself on being a tender lover; he loved women. Loved their curves, their softness, and their delighted squeals as he took them to newer and newer heights, but the fact of the matter was that he was finding the conversations outside of the bedroom quite tiresome. Perhaps it was time he searched for something more.
Just then, with a testament to this house’s superb timeliness, the door to the room slid open and another woman entered. She had skin like dark honey and bright blue eyes, and as was previously arranged, she came up to the blonde kneeling on the floor and began a slow, sensuous rub of her shoulders. The blonde stopped her tongue-stroking to tangle her fine limbs with the new woman, and for a while, Nicholas worked himself, watching the dance between the two females in front of him. They sank to the floor and giggled as they positioned themselves appropriately to take him into both of their mouths simultaneously.
Was he willing to give this up? Nicholas couldn’t help but wonder as he sank into the pleasure of the moment. Something was still nagging at him, and it was only as of late that it was coming into sharper focus for the young duke-to-be. As much as he was enjoying the little scenario he had orchestrated for himself, he knew that his favorite part of being with a woman came before all of this. It was the thrill not of the hunt, but of a built-up anticipation for them both; a laugh here, a soft chuckle and rapier wit elsewhere. He did not know if such a woman even existed, one who could contain both of these qualities within herself at the same time, but hope springs ever eternal. Even if such a woman existed, she would undoubtedly be a bluestocking of the highest order, and unlikely to be particularly suited to his, ah, more physical needs. Besides, nobody in his circle married for love, and he supposed that with the most recent developments in his life, he would have to take on a bride in a more timely manner, somebody who was perfect and knew how to run a household. That thought alone would have made him yawn aloud if he wasn’t being attended to quite so carefully.
Nicholas Connols was well-known amongst the ladies of both the ton and the less reputable houses; his reputation was no secret to Ania, or rather, it wasn’t after her mouthy aunt had come to visit and gossip all about it. The aunt had been particularly jolly when recounting some of his more famous exploits, which made Ania feel a thousand times worse.
“They say he’s quite the animal,” the aunt had said with a wink that Ania felt all the way down to her stomach, which threatened to revolt as soon as she realized that this was the man who was destined to be her husband. Never before had she felt quite so trapped, quite so terrified of what was to come next. Animal? Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she know about animals? She knew about feelings, certainly, but had only one outlet for releasing them, and it was not one that anyone would dare shout from the rooftops.
“Ania, if he is brothers with Brent, and Brent is as good as you say he is,” Margaret pleaded, “Then perhaps it stands to reason that Nicholas may have some good in him, as well.”
Ania peeked out from one mess of thick, dark eyelashes at her sister. “Do you really think so?” she asked, a bit stuffy from all the tears.
“Yes, well, I do hope so,” Margaret backpedaled. “Besides, he is quite a sight for sore eyes.”
Ania gaped at her sister slightly. “Margie!” she cried, using her sister’s childhood nickname that was shared only between the two of them. “You’re so bad! When did you even see him?”
“Oh, on the carriage ride to the park the day after you met Brent,” Marg
aret casually replied, a dimple creasing her cheek ever so slightly.
Ania recalled only the merest glimpse of a stocky, strong, dark figure fast astride a horse passing by. He seemed awfully reckless and dangerous; not at all the kind of qualities she felt would make a suitable union for her. But perhaps there was hope yet that a man who could understand the darker pleasures of life could also understand somebody like her.
Or was that ever too much to even dream about? Well, Ania was nothing if not a dreamer.
That, and the future Duchess Connols, a role she was being forced to take on in her family’s quest for financial reinstitution.
Well then. Ania squared her shoulders and wiped the rest of the tears from her eyes. A hero is a hero, even if he happens to be nothing more than a woman.
* * *
Nicholas had the acute sense that he had been called in front of a firing squad. The five plus solicitors that had gathered into the room all stared down the bridges of their noses through their spectacles, and the expressions on their faces were all so grim that Nicholas felt as if he was a schoolchild who had just done something naughty in the classroom. While it was true that he had indeed just done something naughty with a ripe little redhead, he was not so sure he deserved these particular glances.
“Your Grace, here are the papers that switch over the titles. Lord, ahm, Connols, has looked them over and given them his signature of approval. All that remains is for you to accept.”
Nicholas Connols winced at the mention of his father’s name. Ever since the whole ungodly ordeal had come out into the light, it had rocked his entire family off their feet. Although he knew that his parent’s marriage had been distant for many years, he was used to a certain kind of civility at home; now, he had the distinct displeasure of watching the usually calm and impassive Lady Connols appear disheveled, angry, and not a bit remorseful at the dinner tables while Lord Connols’s mouth appeared like a gathered set of purse strings whenever he and his besmirched wife had to appear out in public together. Thank heavens his relationship with Brent had not suffered; Nicholas did not know by what miracle he and his brother had grown up in such camaraderie, but it appeared that Brent bore him no ill will despite the sudden switch of their fortunes. Perhaps it was because Brent relished all the aspects of life that a title did not necessarily provide—the thrill of a good marketing scheme, numbers and ledgers, and books; having a fortune and a title would leave him no time at all to pursue such decidedly dull pursuits.
Nicholas was of a different breed, a little more aimless, a little less likely to wake up at the indecently early hour Brent had forced him to on this day to meet the solicitors who were sorting out the inheritances in light of the changed circumstances. As the wealth of boring paperwork was spread out before him for his perusal, Nicholas felt panic rise up again in his throat. There was so much, it seemed, involved in becoming his father’s heir; suddenly, more was expected of him in a week than had been in the sum of his entire natural life. He nodded and attempted to make his expression interested, but the truth of the matter was that Brent was far better suited to understanding all the legal specifications of the case than he was. Ye gods, perhaps he should name his brother manager of his estate, thought Nicholas, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realized it was the perfect thing to do. Brent would be happy as a clam, considering workings like these were as exciting to him as reading the latest serial, the more dramatic the better, was to Nicholas.
“What’s this?” Brent suddenly demanded, and this snapped Nicholas’s attention away from his musings to the present. “What manner of incestuous nonsense is this?” Nicholas had rarely heard temper in his brother’s voice, so the matter must be concerning, to say the least.
“It says there is a betrothal involved,” said one of the solicitors drily, cowering a bit at Brent’s fierce look. “To one Lady Ania Cromwell.”
Nicholas felt his chest squeeze as he heard the name of his brother’s betrothed spoken aloud. Although he knew that Brent had not felt any great love for his fiancé, he had been looking forward to an easy friendship and a calm relationship with the lady in question. That fact was no secret as Brent began to bluster and go red in the face. “And now—now she is to be wed to Nicholas?”
The solicitor did not appear to be happy to be the bearer of the news. “It appears that Lord Connols had invested a great deal of money in propping up the lady’s family holdings and has entered a clause into the documents that reads that if the marriage between Nicholas—Your Grace—and the lady does not take place, then the dukedom will not be settled on anyone.”
The brothers Connols looked at each other, aghast. It appeared that their father had quite the vindictive streak in him, and was determined to break apart what was left of the family. If Nicholas did not marry Ania Cromwell, then his holdings would go into back taxes for the Queen, and neither Nicholas nor Brent would see a penny of his money.
“Well, surely my father cannot expect that I would fulfill this wish. She was to be my brother’s wife, it’s—it’s indecent!” cried Nicholas, feeling a vein throb in his temple. It was the same vein whose pulse he tried to slow by many stress-releasing visits to the brothels.
“It appears that it is so,” answered the solicitor, and Nicholas felt his heart drop in his chest.
“And what of the lady in question?” he asked, trying desperately to call to mind the face of Ania Cromwell, and coming up blank. “What if she decides that she does not want to agree to this?” Even as he asked, Nicholas understood the futility of the situation. Surely, the state of the matter was that while noble, the lady’s title held no monetary value and she would need to marry him in order to supply her family’s coffers in some steady supply. Furthermore, within their circles, nobody asked the young wives to be of their opinions on their upcoming nuptials or husbands, for that matter.
It appeared that in addition to inheriting a dukedom, he would also be inheriting a wife. An interesting proposition, providing his brother wasn’t so attached to the lady that it would cause an unspeakable rift between them.
“Is she quite the girl, then?” Nicholas asked his brother once the two of them had cleared out into the park outside.
For a moment, Brent did not say a word, but simply ran his hand through his close-cropped blond hair. When he spoke, his voice was low. “It’s not her, Nick,” he said, and Nicholas felt his heart catch at the old familiar name tossed between them. “She’s a nice enough girl, smart even, and quite the looker, if you can learn to appreciate it. It’s just this whole damn mess between Lord and Lady Connols.”
Nicholas knew what he meant. Members of Society liked to pretend that just because they had money, the ordinary mortal troubles of the world did not concern them at all, and nothing could be more human than his mother being unfaithful to his father. In many ways, he admired her gumption, but perhaps that came from reading so many dramatic novels. Still, his father cut an imposing figure, and if Lady Connols was brave enough to risk his wrath and not only be with another man, but also bear that other man a child, well, he had to hand it to her, it was likely she possessed a steel pair of something only gentlemen were supposed to have.
He found it surprising that he could admire such a quality about her, but the fact of the matter was that members of their class never did marry for love. In spite of the little matter that Brent had gone from being his brother to only his half-brother, Nicholas did not feel any more distant from him and the only rage he felt for his mother was directed at the fact that her indiscretion had been discovered and was causing such upheaval in all their lives. But for the fact that she had found love? No, he could never hate her for that.
Maybe that was the elusive element that had escaped him with every woman he had ever been with. Renowned as an egalitarian lover, he had never wanted for a warm body in his bed; the women from the houses asked for him back sans charge, and many a lady had sidled up to him during a party to request a few clandestine moments alone wi
th him. Something, however, was always missing, and as he wondered what it was, his thoughts turned to his prospective bride, Lady Ania Cromwell. If Brent held her in high enough regard to acknowledge her intelligence, then perhaps there was a chance something could be forged between them that could last. He knew that if anything, what he had learned from this whole mess with his family was that he would never stray if he could help it. And so he would let Ania Cromwell know. In due time. After she had warmed to the marriage bed, as he sincerely hoped she would, knowing full well the capacities of the female body for pleasure, both his own and theirs. He would give her the money her family desperately needed, and perhaps she would be the companion he had been looking for this whole time.
“This has been quite a lot to digest,” Nicholas finally said to his brother. “Not only have our fates switched, but now there is a third party involved. This is what not having at least a civil relationship with your lord leads to,” he muttered, feeling the bitterness rise sharply on his tongue.
“Nicholas, you’ve been reading those damn serials again!” Brent cried. “All this talk of fates and civil relationships, what nonsense. This is what our lives are; this is what they will eventually turn into. Look, Ania is a nice enough girl, but she’s a gentle-bred lady. So she spies in the bushes on romantic trysts—it doesn’t mean a damned thing! She’s still a frigid little member of the ton, just like her impoverished parents.”
ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories) Page 111